


holding each other by the hand

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [6]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Constant Vigilance, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Public Display of Affection, minor worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23736709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Early summer, 9:37 DragonAlthough there's never quite safety for mages on the run, this is as close as it gets. In a hidden camp in the Free Marches, Fenris reflects on his position, on the state of the world, and on the changes in his lover.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	holding each other by the hand

**Author's Note:**

> Y’all. I wrote this fic to recover after a couple bad days on _the same week_ that I posted Chapter 5 of “each venture is a new beginning.” I’ve been waiting since January 30 to put this up!

The metallic rasp of the whetstone over the edge of Fenris’ sword is a comforting sound. He has the rhythm of it now, the steady strokes that will bring it back to the appropriate edge. Fenris knows warriors who prefer a razor edge; he finds that such edges don’t stand up well to hard wear, rolling or chipping the edge of the blade.

Besides, the obsession with constantly sharpening to a razor edge seems generally to be the province of novices and novelists. His sword, of high-quality and well-tempered aurum, does not require such an edge to be effective. On occasion, Fenris still misses the familiar weight of Lethandralis—he’d fought with the blade for years before Hawke gifted this sword to him, mere days before the Kirkwall Rebellion—but the better make of this sword is undeniable.

Considering his current circumstances, Fenris really prefers this one.

He examines the edge of the blade and deems it appropriate. It’s the first time he’s had to sharpen it in a few weeks, since they’ve mostly avoided fights for a while. No one is looking for a group of refugee mages out _here_.

The location of this hidden camp, some miles north of Ansburg in a dell deep inside a fairly sizeable forest, close to a branch of the Minanter River, seems well out of sight of the eyes of the Chantry. The next closest settlement is the small town of Aulbarrow, sitting at a crossroads between here and Ansburg, where they go to purchase goods and hear news. The local Chantry is tiny and humble, with a fine old Reverend Mother who turns a blind eye to strangers in her town save when they come to the door asking for charity. There are no Templars, not even any Grey Wardens.

For as much as they can be safe here, they are safe.

Still, Fenris practices a policy of constant vigilance. Tucking away his whetstone and pulling out the much-used leather strop, Fenris pauses to survey the camp. The day is young and there’s much to do, for the sixteen people occupying the camp.

The three youngest mages—Lea, Eli, and Alain—run through the camp in a very loose interpretation of “Tag.” Their ever-patient minder Bertrand, a young man too old to be a child and too young to have passed his Harrowing, follows them a few paces behind, making sure they don’t cause too much trouble. He waves awkwardly when Fenris catches his eye.

“Hello, Fenris!” Lea carols as the children sprint by.

“Don’t fall into the fire,” Fenris says in reply, to which the young lady just giggles.

In the spreading shade of a huge oak, several residents sit. Yvonne mends clothes while, beside her, Binet—one of the Tranquil mages, a man of significant stature—works on repairing a broken iron tripod for the fire. Halan, as is his usual habit, sits leaning on the tree with his journal in his lap, writing. The elf is single-mindedly scholarly, even evicted from the academic environment of the Circles. He’s not a great mage, only having minor magics and a talent for research. Yvonne came from a similar position—hence her passion for fabric arts.

Off to the left, Johann, another Tranquil mage, works with Barbigia (a somewhat pompous man who, despite having been brought down to earth by his circumstances, still insists on being known only by his prestigious Antivan surname) to prepare what will be the noon communal meal. While Barbigia tends the firebox, Johann meticulously cleans several fish brought in this morning.

He hadn’t thought about it until now, but it seems Fenris will be subsisting on the potatoes and purple carrots he sees in a bundle on the trestle table, prepared for roasting. Oh, well. At least they managed to purchase some butter and salt, which will make the potatoes more palatable.

The faint smell of turpentine is all over the camp today since Alina is working on waterproofing cloth for their shelters. Due to the smell and the flammability of her work, she’s a fair distance away from the camp, but not so far that Fenris can’t keep an eye on her. She gives him a serene nod when he catches her eye, and he nods respectfully in return. 

Brithari, one of the other elves, stands near the tent she shares with Yvonne and Alina, hanging up the three women’s laundry. She sings as she works, something pleasant if a little off-key, half in broken elvhen, and half in Trade. Next door, Maris, the elderly former knight enchanter, nods along as she sweeps the dust from her tent.

Close by, tending to their mule and single horse, Fenris spots Namaril. The young elf came a long way, perhaps the furthest of any of their refugees—all the way from Montsimmard Circle in the far south of Orlais. They don’t like to talk to people, and mostly keep to themselves. Whatever they experienced left them wary of contact with others. Fenris doesn’t pry.

Finally, at the far edge of the camp, Anders and Ornek stand talking seriously. Ornek is a Qunari, a down-on-his-luck Tal-Vashoth mercenary Anders and Fenris pay out of the small fortune Fenris amassed during his time in Kirkwall. He rarely spent money, so there’s plenty to pay for many of their expenses, including Ornek’s fees. Though the Qunari claims to be wholly selfish, the kindness with which he treats the skittish mages around him tells Fenris that he cares more than he’s letting on.

Anders sees Fenris looking and offers a smile and wave. Fenris returns the gesture and, satisfied that everything is in order for now, returns to working on his sword. It’s important for him to keep his equipment in good condition, just in case. Maris is in fighting form, despite being over sixty, and Ornek is a highly competent fighter. They have a few competent fighting mages. But, when the chips are down, Fenris really only trusts himself.

He’s just sliding his sword back into its sheath when Anders appears and sits down beside him. “I think we’ll need to make another trip into town soon,” he says.

“Translation,” Fenris says, “you want Maris and Barbigia and I to make another trip into town soon, yes?”

Anders looks unfazed. “Of course I do,” he says. “But this time I’m going along.”

Fenris turns to Anders and folds his arms. “You are not going and that is the _end_ of this conversation. I will hear no more on it.”

“Go scowl at someone else,” Anders says tolerantly. “Ornek heard rumors that Templars are on the march in Tantervale. I’d like to put my ear to the ground myself.”

“I can search for rumors. The townsfolk know me already. Besides, _you_ are the greatest liability to our group,” Fenris points out. “If you’re recognized, the wrath of the entire Chantry will come down on our heads.”

Anders scoffs. “As if you’re not notable enough.” He looks Fenris over pointedly.

“Perhaps, but we have guaranteed that no one knows you and I are traveling together.”

“That would be because everyone thinks I’m _dead_. Anyone who thinks they saw me will believe they saw a ghost, no more. And that’s assuming anyone who was in Kirkwall is even in _Ansburg_ , let alone out _here_.”

Fenris doesn’t wish to concede the point, so he just glares.

It would be lovely if that still worked on Anders, but after three months traveling together, Anders is far too accustomed to Fenris to be bothered. He smiles at Fenris, stretching out his long legs and leaning back on his hands. “It’s kind of you to worry for me.”

“I’m not only worried about you,” Fenris says. He gestures at the camp at large. “All your mages are in my charge to protect.”

“You sound like I do nothing to help.”

“Mage. You acquire refugees and hand them off to me to protect, then run straight off to acquire even _more_ for me to look after. You do _not_ help.”

Anders laughs. “I can’t argue with that,” he says. He leans over and presses a dry kiss to Fenris’ cheek, still with that easy and free smile.

Fenris sighs, but all the fire is taken out of his disagreement. Looking at Anders now, hair gleaming gold in the sun, face healthily tanned, he wonders at how different the man seems now from the man he was in Kirkwall. Perhaps it’s merely the clean air and exercise that’s bringing health back to Anders’ tired body, but Fenris is well aware of the benefits freedom can bring a man.

Though Fenris is still willing to argue the finer points of Anders’ ideas (they certainly avoid the topic of the Chantry explosion, and of Justice), he knows that Anders had truly believed in his cause, and that even his most questionable actions were meant for the good of Kirkwall.

He’d tried to carry a city on his shoulders. When that weight was removed, it seemed that _both_ of Anders’ spirits lifted. Even Justice, though his appearances have been rare, seems easier. Anders’ fire for his cause and his fixation on it has not been reduced, but it seems now less a burden and more a _torch_ he carries.

Fenris appreciates the change.

“You’re staring,” Anders says.

“Yes, I am,” Fenris says. His remaining irritation melts into a smile of his own. “You are a pleasant sight on a fine day.”

Anders tosses his hair. He seems about to make a comment when a querulous meow sounds from the tent and Libertas, her feathery gray tail held high, emerges to climb in Anders’ lap. She turns in a circle, tail waving. From Anders’ wince, she’s putting her paws on particularly _sensitive_ places, but Anders merely pets her with a besotted expression.

“I still marvel at your cat,” Johann says, looking down at Libertas as he passes by with a basket of herbs over his arm.

“She’s worth marveling at,” Anders says, rubbing between her ears.

Johann pauses. “I mostly marvel that you have such a helpless creature in the middle of a refugee camp,” he says, and it’s moments like these that make Fenris seriously wonder about Tranquility because Johann sounds downright _sardonic_ when he says it.

Anders shrugs. “She earns her keep,” he says. “It’s not as if anyone complains about pests.”

“That is true,” Johann says, and continues on his way.

Fenris reaches over to scratch Libertas’ back. “You may accompany us on our next trip,” he says, giving Anders a sideways glance. “ _But_ , Anders, you will agree to obey my directions if you are spotted, am I clear?”

“As crystal,” Anders says. He leans against Fenris, their shoulders touching. “I suppose one of the mages you’re protecting _is_ me, after all.”

“You need not sound so insufferably pleased with yourself.”

“I’m mostly pleased with _you_ ,” Anders says. He kisses Fenris’ cheek again and remains there for a moment, the tip of his nose against Fenris’ cheekbone. “Thank you, love.”

Fenris closes his eyes. _Love_. Anders began to call him that a while after they left Kirkwall, after long nights pressed together on cold nights became the norm, after they began taking in lost apostates and shepherding them across the Free Marches, after fighting off Templars and darkspawn and bandits. It’s a gentle term of endearment that makes Fenris’ heart do strange things.

He can’t quite make himself say it back. So he replies with touch, with other words that carry just as much weight. He does his best.

Anders seems to understand what Fenris means, anyway.

There are things that both of them must do soon. Fenris needs to take his turn walking the picket around their hidden camp, securing their concealed traps and ensuring that all is right. He plans an exercise of arms later with Maris, who is despite her age an ingenious fighter who keeps Fenris on his toes. Meanwhile, Anders has lessons to teach—combat magic practice with Brithari and Barbigia, their only other two able-bodied Harrowed mages who are willing to fight, and lessons with the children.

Yet for now, they have the opportunity to sit side by side in the warm sun, their cat purring on Anders’ lap, and simply _be_. The grass is soft under them, the air is clearer than it ever was in Kirkwall, and there’s peace between them.

It’s moments like these that Fenris understands what “freedom” really means.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched a lot of people sharpen swords and read a lot about preferable cutting edges on blades to write the opening paragraphs. If any of my readers are dedicated swordspersons and have objections/corrections, by all means hit me up in the comments!


End file.
